London: A month later

The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.

When violence runs in your blood, the compulsion to kill is an inherent part of you. It’s intimate and unruly; a lover possessed with only one feeling, one yearning, stopping at nothing to obtain the lead.

For Grayson and I, those lines are blurred more than usual. We can just as easily commit murder as we can make love. Both give us a climactic satisfaction and completion in possessing the other.

Love and murder. The same innate emotion fuels both.

“Dr. Noble? Did you hear me?”

I look up and tuck a loose wisp of hair behind my ear. Warden Marks stands before me in all his lanky, scarecrow glory. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was just thinking we’ve come full circle.”

His smile is sardonic. “We have. Thank you for this.” He holds up the file that contains my final patient evaluation for Cotsworth Correctional Facility. “I know saying these past few months haven’t been easy for you is a gross understatement—”

A tight smile rims my mouth.

“—but you’ve fulfilled your obligation to the facility in my book,” he says. “I’m happy to sign-off on the early release.” He takes a step toward the elevator and pauses. “Where are you planning to go, by the way?”

I glance around the floor at all the partially packed boxes. “I’m taking a few weeks off, then I have arrangements on the west coast.”

The warden nods solemnly. “A change of scenery could be good. Well, good luck, London.”

I see Warden Marks out, then give Lacy the rest of the day off. With the commitment to Cotsworth fulfilled, and my clients referred to another psychologist, there’s nothing left to do but pack.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Lacy asks as she grabs her bag.

I shake my head with a sigh. “I can handle the last bit. You should get a jump on your paper. No excuses.” I eye her severely, then smile.

Once the floor is empty, I relish the silence, taking my time packing up my office.

Any normal, sane person may feel apprehensive about being left alone in the place where she was previously attacked by a deranged FBI agent—but my questionable sanity isn’t the reason why I’m daring the fates.

It’s monotony.

Nearly four weeks have passed since I last set eyes on Agent Nelson, and every day I wonder if it’s going to be the day that he comes for me. The waiting…the not knowing…it’s insufferable.

I’d rather he jump out at me from a dark corner than continue in this morbid limbo.

I toss a box on top of my desk and start clearing off my bookshelf.

The announcement of my practice officially closing released this morning. So if the agent has been lurking on the sidelines, now is the time to strike.

Only the doubt that he’ll make any attempt weighs heavily in my steps as I move around the office, the room becoming bare, empty. The job not taking nearly as long as I thought.

I seal up the last box, the harsh sound of tape stretching away from the roll a final note in my life here. I tear the tape and smooth it along the edges of the box, lost in thought.

Grayson has yet to make contact.

After his violent escape from police custody, he apparently fled Maine. I can only speculate as to how it happened, the reports biased and muddled and not having near enough facts. Three officers were injured during the escape, but only superficially—and with the state I left Grayson in, I’m truly surprised there were no fatalities.

I can envision Grayson using my key to unlock the holding cell. Alarmed cops rushing the hall. Shots fired. Batons and Tasers confiscated and used against the officers. A bloody trail in Grayson’s wrathful wake.

He’s never been capable of extreme emotional outbursts before, but then, I’m not sure if it was reactive or deliberate. Meant to intimidate Nelson.

Which, to be honest, seems to have worked.

When the manhunt for Grayson took authorities toward the south, I was approached by Nelson’s superiors and questioned on his whereabouts. I was the last to have seen the agent, to have talked to him. According to the FBI, Nelson was already a loose cannon, having pushed his way onto Grayson’s case against their discretion.

Nelson was under investigation at the time, his stellar capture rate not earning him any favors where the FBI was concerned. Although he received a slight pardon for his behavior after the death of his wife and child the previous year, he was required to pass a psych eval before returning full-time.

All the time I spent with Agent Nelson and he never once mentioned the accident that took his family. Then again, revealing a major stressor to a criminal psychologist would not have been an ideal move on his part. To wit, the FBI are the best secret keepers.

Well, almost the best.

I stack the boxes outside my office for the moving crew tomorrow, then I go to turn off the light. A moment of nostalgia grabs me, and I look at the saltwater tank, now devoid of fish, and say a silent goodbye to my practice.

After I lock up for the last time, I set the key on the receptionist desk and decide to walk the scenic route to my apartment. I’m keeping the lease on the townhouse, as Maine will always be my home. I’m just not sure about reopening a practice here. At least, not in the near future.

Time is needed.

Time and distance.

The aviary is beautiful at sunset. Whenever I had a particularly bad day, a detour onto the winding paths through lush greenery always soothed me. I don’t even particularly like birds… I come here for the gardens and trails. The ponds that line the boardwalk.

I never really thought about why I might find this place so tranquil. I can’t help but wonder if I’m relating to the giant birdcage on a subconscious level. Feeling some measure of comfort in the iron bars. I stuff my hands in my pockets and mentally laugh at myself, mocking my over analytical nature.

This is the first time I’ve been here since Detective Foster followed me into the gardens. I half expect to see him as I turn the corner. With his hovering cloud of cigarette smoke and derisive expression, ready to scold me for walking home alone.

Over the past few weeks, the ornery detective and I have gotten closer. Oddly enough, Foster has proven to be rather heroic, swooping in to help me evade the press after Grayson’s escape when Young couldn’t be present.

I even gave him the evidence of Nelson’s attack on me—the epithelial cells I recovered from beneath my nails after having scratched the agent. I believe it was that trust I supplied in him, touting a conspiracy to protect Agent Nelson on the FBI’s part, which solidified his belief in my having no hand in Grayson’s latest getaway.

Before I arrived at the Rockland jailhouse, I called Foster from the taxi, securing a measure of protection against any future attacks from the deranged agent, and insurance for Grayson. If something happened to me, I wanted at least one person to suspect it might not be Grayson.

I kept the truth of Nelson’s copycat murders hidden, knowing that, without proof, it would be an empty accusation—one the Feds would hardly be willing to believe or investigate. But I could use Nelson’s attack on me to prove his devolving mental state. For now, that’s enough.

I’m still pretty good at reading people. And as far as Foster is concerned, Grayson is a threat to the both of us. Joining us together in some morbid effort to protect each other, as no one else has suffered as we have.

By now, the detective should’ve returned to New Castle. Yet he’s stated that, with the loss of his career, there’s nothing there for him to return to. He’s taken a job here as a private investigator, claiming he’s enjoying the freedom of selecting his own investigations. But I believe, like me, he’s waiting.

A feeling of déjà vu assaults my senses, and I stop. Footsteps reach my ears. I whirl around, Taser already in hand.

A young man wearing a blue postal uniform raises his hands. “Whoa—”

“What do you want?”

I’m wary of everyone these days. As I study the man, he appears harmless, but I know how easily one can be deceived. The mini-Taser I keep clipped to my belt loop withdraws back to its place on a retractable cord.

“That’s pretty convenient,” the guy says, then takes a hesitant step forward. I notice a small package in his hand.

“Don’t move,” I say. “What is that?”

He holds it out to me. “It’s for Dr. Noble,” he claims. “I tried your office, but it was closed. Then someone said you just left the building, and I saw you heading this way. Are you Dr. Noble? This package is kind of time sensitive…”

“How much were you paid to deliver it personally?”

A guilty blush tinges his cheeks. “It’s important that I get this to you today.”

Dammit. This feels wrong. If Grayson wants to reach me, he does so. He doesn’t involve others—but maybe he’s too far away. Maybe this is the only way he can contact me.

“Who gave it to you?” I ask. When he shakes his head, clueless, I push. “Was it a man? What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see him,” he admits. “Look. My boss handed it to me and said he’d pay me cash to get it to you quickly. But this shit is starting to freak me out…”

“All right. Give it here.” I accept the package and wait for the guy to leave, making sure I’m alone before I start to inspect it.

Regardless of the high foliage and secluded sanctuary of the aviary, I’m too exposed here. The postal worker proved how easy it is to follow someone when you’re determined. And all he wanted was some cash.

Nelson wants much more…

I tear the brown packaging open.

The guy said time sensitive, and I’ve been waiting weeks for something to happen. Inside the package is a small black, cardboard box. Anxious, I ease the top off, and my heart gallops.

A clover rests on a bed of fleecy cotton.

I glance around the garden, my chest tight. “Grayson…”

I close the box and head out of the aviary, the feeling that I’m not alone lingering on the edge of my thoughts.

It started here. It has to end here.

---

The chest-thumping beat beckons me closer. It’s like gravity, drawing me in and through the doors of the Blue Clover. The sultry music engulfs my senses, a hypnotic trance that reels me through the throng of close-pressed bodies.

I’ve been here before. A familiar, tantalizing promise lingers in the air—the promise of escape. Freedom. I can still taste a hint of it as the mesmerizing colors swirl within a smoky haze over the dance floor.

We had a design. We had each other.

But then, I was sheathed in a disguise, hidden—able to camouflage my desires for a night. There was no question of London or Lydia. There was only my longing to be his.

This time, there’s no mask to shield me. My designer black dress suit hugs my curves like perfectly fitted armor. My black-and-nude pumps clash with the wild atmosphere, and probably cost more than every outfit here.

I’m aware of how blatantly I stand out as I move through the dance club. Women size me up, men look too eager to approach me, as if I’m lost, as if I’m on the prowl, a huntress craving flesh.

Which was the whole point when I chose the club as our secret reunion spot. No one would suspect me to come here. Dr. London Noble wouldn’t blend.

Maybe I should’ve donned a disguise tonight. Made sure I saw him first before he noticed me—but that’s part of the strategy.

Let him take me.

I stalk the scene on a mission.

The music changes speed, the rhythm faster, matching my rapid heartbeat. Annoyed, I fend off advances, waving away two men in cheap suits, and take up the back wall where I discovered Grayson once before. Smoke rolls across the floor in vibrating neon flashes, the beat climbs higher, and bodies crowd together in a dense mass, obscuring my vision.

For the first time in months, a twinge of pain nudges my lower back. Out of habit, I adjust my posture to compensate for the heels, and a spike of alarm stabs my chest.

This isn’t right.

The smoke machine spits vapors at me, stealing my breath. My head spins. The dark club is suddenly too bright. I’m pushing through the condensed bodies toward the exit, hands snagging my clothes, my hair.

Something’s wrong.

The thought hits me as someone presses up against my backside. A strong arm circles my waist. Irritation claws at my defenses, and I clamp my hand around the thick wrist at my pelvis. “Get off.”

“I could probably manage that, but I’d love to know what getting you off—really off—feels like.”

Nelson’s gruff voice reaches my ears past the hyped music. My body tenses, my hold on his arm turning to stone.

“Where’s Grayson?”

It’s the most important question. Every contingency to follow rides on his answer.

He feathers my hair over my shoulder, rough fingers stroking my neck. “Shh. You’re going to ruin the surprise.” Then he presses hard against me, making me aware of the gun tucked in his waistband.

I wrench out of his hold and spin to face him straight-on. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I look around at all the people in the club. “This isn’t some cliché movie, Nelson. You’re not going to stick a gun in my side and lead me to some remote location. If you’re going to kill me, do it. Right now. In front of everyone here.”

He chuckles. “God, you really are a snotty bitch.”

“And you’re merely a pathetic imitator,” I sling back. “At least we can be honest with each other now.”

He stalks forward and lowers his voice. “Do you really want to make a scene? What are your chances to discover what I’ve done with your lover then?”

The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.

So the question becomes: Who wants it more?

Me.

“Take me to him,” I demand.

I don’t give him another moment. We’re already drawing too much attention. I start off the dance floor, and Nelson’s hand slips into mine. “So we don’t get separated,” he says.

The cool night air is a strange comfort as I push outside. The chill chases away some of the sickly dread festering inside that the heat of the club allowed to thrive. I remove my hand from Nelson’s grip as I start down the steps.

“Your phone, London.”

Without turning around, I dig my cell from my suit pocket and hand it to him from over my shoulder. “Is he alive?”

The question leaves behind a sour aftertaste. I squeeze my eyes closed.

I hear the distinct crunch of my phone beneath his boot. Then the former agent moves in front of me. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I discern the scratches I put on his face. Now faint and healed over, but they’re there. He notices my inspection with an irritated scowl.

I smile. “Everyone has scars, Nelson. It’s what defines us.”

Without a rebuttal, he forces me to walk. We’re heading in the same direction, following the exact path I took once before. I know he’s going to turn the corner into the alley before he directs my course down the darkened lane between the buildings.

“Being on the run from the authorities…” I hedge. “You’re really taking this copycat thing to the next level.”

Still no response.

“Why do you do it, Nelson? For the rush? For the sheer satisfaction of outsmarting the Feds?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand is what I do. Try me.” When he remains silent, I add, “I know about your family. What happened to them.”

“You don’t know anything,” he snaps, driving a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Then explain it to me. Make me understand.”

He chuckles, incensed. “You’re so fucking annoying.” Only he delves into his story. “I was working a case,” he says. “I should’ve been there. But this perp… With all the regulations and red tape, I couldn’t bring him in. So I had to sit on him, and wait. Just wait for him to make a move so I could catch him in the act. I thought I couldn’t live with myself if he killed another girl while I wasn’t looking.”

I slow my steps, and Nelson matches my pace.

“I was wrong. I found out that what I couldn’t live with was the guilt of not being there for my wife. For my little baby son. Had I been there, that accident never would’ve happened.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t.”

“Oh, but I can. I know that if I’d been there, she never would’ve been driving late at night to get medicine for him. I would’ve been behind that wheel, not her. So when it comes to the ‘bad guys’—” he makes mocking air quotes “—I no longer dick around. If I know you’re guilty, you’re mine. No time wasted on protocol.”

I look at him. “No matter how far you have to go to catch the bad guy. No matter how many victims—”

“As far as I’m concerned, I did the world a favor. I’m a hero. Every one of my victims had a rap sheet a mile long. Scum of the earth. They had it coming, and now the world is better for their absence.”

Delusions of grandeur. Only Nelson isn’t the hero of this piece. He can’t be.

“You used your inside connections with the FBI to target victims,” I say, analyzing. “Sloppy.”

He scoffs. “You’re one to talk, doctor death.”

I eye him from my periphery. “How did you know about the Blue Clover?”

Silent, he strolls down the alley clad in a white T-shirt and jeans, so different than the put-together FBI agent I remember. He strolls like we’re just two people on a walk. No worries. No malice between us.

I’m not a threat to him. At least, not in the traditional sense. Nelson disappeared in part due to the imminent investigation after my attack—but mostly, once Grayson escaped law enforcement, Nelson went in pursuit of his obsession, his need to capture Grayson his primary goal; chasing his objective without the interference of the FBI to hinder him.

Nelson shouldn’t be underestimated. It takes a strong will to turn your back on the only life you know in pursuit of another, in spite of all else.

Which also makes him dangerous.

He’s a man with nothing to lose.

We come to our destination. The abandoned mechanic garage I selected myself. Nelson finally looks at me and says, “You told me.” He brings out a key, and I notice that the lock on the rusted metal door is new. He pushes the door open and sweeps his hands in an invitation, urging me forward.

As I enter the garage, memories of Grayson flood my mind. I feel him everywhere.

Then I see the locks.

I’m thrust back to the mouth of the maze and all the gleaming keys. Only now, every silver and gold and bronze shimmering object stares back at me with the eyes of rusted notches and mouths of keyholes.

“This isn’t your trap,” I say, my voice breathy. I recognize the construct, the details—all the hours of rigorous study and research I put into the design.

“I can’t take the credit,” Nelson says, edging closer. “But I can take the prize.”

A sharp prick at my neck, and I react. I’m fighting off Nelson and grasping at the needle sinking deep as my vision blurs. Drowsiness claims me, and my muscles go lax.

Nelson captures me before I hit the cement. My breaths shallow, my racing heart the only part of my body still filled with fight.

“I’m the bait,” I whisper.

He smoothes my hair away from my face, gaze cast down as he cradles me. “There was no other way, London.”

Grayson is coming.

It’s my last thought before blackness takes me.